Soft lights bathed the room in a warm golden hue. Velvet cushions were scattered across the floor, and an old classic romantic film played on the large projector screen. Anika and Myra sat curled up under a blanket, bowls of popcorn half-eaten in their laps.
The heroine on screen whispered a trembling confession as the hero traced his fingers down her cheek, their foreheads touching, breath mingling.
Anika gasped playfully and nudged Myra with her elbow. "Look at that! Gosh, the way he touches her. It's like she'll melt."
Myra let out a tiny laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Anika turned to her with a teasing grin. "I'm so sure you blush the exact same way when Ranvijay bhaiya touches you."
Myra almost choked on her popcorn. "What?! No, I don't!"
Anika arched a brow. "No way. You totally do. I've seen it, you freeze like a statue and your ears turn red."
"That's—That's not true," Myra mumbled, flustered, reaching for the remote to lower the volume.
Anika laughed harder. "Come on, you can't lie to me. You're so easy to read. The man just looks at you and you practically short-circuit."
"I don't feel anything," Myra blurted, her voice slightly louder, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Not like that."
And that's when it happened.
A quiet intake of breath.
A faint shift of air.
They hadn't noticed the slight creak of the door earlier.
They hadn't seen the tall figure standing just inside the room.
Ranvijay.
He had come looking for Myra.
And he had heard every word.
Anika sensed the sudden shift in air the moment Ranvijay entered. His gaze wasn't casual—it was razor-sharp, locked entirely on Myra. The teasing on her tongue died. A quiet tension draped over the room like smoke. She cleared her throat, murmured a quick excuse, and slipped out, casting one last glance at her brother's unreadable expression—and at Myra, who stood frozen, wide-eyed.
The door had barely clicked shut when Ranvijay closed the distance. His hand wrapped around Myra's delicate wrist, not harshly, but with an authority that left no room for defiance. Before she could react, he spun her, guided her backward and in one swift motion, lowered her onto the plush daybed like she belonged there, like she'd always belonged beneath him, breathless and cornered.
Myra gasped softly as her back met the plush daybed, and Ranvijay leaned in, his figure looming like a shadow sculpted by firelight. The door had shut behind him with a quiet finality, and now it was just them—her heartbeat echoing in her ears, and his dark eyes consuming her whole.
"You really don't feel anything, huh?" he asked, voice low and gravel-thick with restrained rage… and something else far more dangerous.
His hand slid over her waist, rough fingers grazing her through the pastel silk like he had every right to touch her.
Myra clenched her jaw, trying to steady her breath—but her lashes trembled, betraying her restraint.
Ranvijay's gaze fell to her lips.
"You keep lying to me," he whispered, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, "but worse—you lie to yourself."
Her breath hitched.
He leaned closer, so close that his breath was a heat against her face. "You don't feel anything when I touch you?"
His other hand rose, sliding behind her neck. His fingers tangled into her hair gently, pulling her closer—locking her in. "Tell me again, Myra. Say it now. Look into my eyes and tell me I don't do anything to you."
She couldn't speak. Her eyes fluttered closed, betraying her rebellion with surrender. The way her chest moved in shallow breaths, the flush creeping up her neck, the slight parting of her lips—every piece of her body defied her words.
Ranvijay didn't kiss her.
But he brushed his thumb across her lips again—slow, deliberate, claiming the silence.
"You tremble under my hands," he murmured. "Your breath falters. Your heartbeat betrays you. And still, you deny me?"
He lowered his forehead to hers, breathing with her.
"This is what you do to me," he whispered, voice shaking with possessiveness. "And you'll still look me in the eyes and say you feel nothing?"
Her fingers were twisted in the cushion beneath her. Her body arched, barely perceptible, desperate for space but unable to push him away.
"I could touch you a thousand times," he whispered at her ear, voice deep, wrecked, "and you'll still pretend none of it matters… but your body tells me truths your mouth won't dare."
His hand slid from her neck to her collarbone—thumb grazing it reverently, almost as if it was sacred.
Her lips parted again. A broken breath escaped.
"Say it," he said, his voice tightening, "Say you don't feel this. Say I don't live in your breath."
Still silence.
He pulled back, just a little, and stared at her.
Her eyes fluttered open—glazed, dazed, and wide with panic at herself.
"You burn under my touch Myra," he said darkly. "You just don't accept it yet."
And with that, he stood—leaving behind a silence that screamed louder than anything they'd said.